Friday, April 29, 2016


A man lies on a red leather sectional
in the lobby of the museum.
A curvaceous woman with a ponytail
stands beside him, not touching him, waiting
for an ambulance to arrive. He had staggered in
through the front doors after apparently
toppling into the rose bushes across the street
in the park. The EMTs fiddle with their
various devices. They revive him
and wheel him out strapped to a stretcher
with an oxygen mask on his face.
A half dozen cops show up just as everything
is ending, apparently the man had ODd
and was given a shot of Narcon and had somehow
gotten away before he could be taken
to the hospital. 
I thank the woman for her help. She says
the artery in the man's neck was throbbing wildly
even though he was barely breathing.
All day I think about that pulsing vein,
think about my own blood circulating
around around, think about that woman
and her hard, beautiful face, wonder who
will stand beside me when I am lying
perfectly still, my face and hands
lacerated by thorns 

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